The heron stands on a dirty snowbank
beside Memorial Drive, takes in
the broad expanse of its river still
frozen, a mess of tracks and trash.
Morning’s rush of cars splash salted
slush a stone’s throw from its legs.
beside Memorial Drive, takes in
the broad expanse of its river still
frozen, a mess of tracks and trash.
Morning’s rush of cars splash salted
slush a stone’s throw from its legs.
From the bridge, I watch
the silver bird swivel its attention
toward an open pool at its feet,
dark water guttering from a culvert’s
corrugated mouth.
The heron lifts its head, What happened to— Where—
finally, neck long, taut, opening wings,
it flexes ancient feathers and is gone.
